


Four Minutes and Thirty Seconds

by FinAmour



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence, Dirty Talk, Elevator Sex, Hand Jobs, I’m not actually sure what happens when you push an elevator emergency button, Jealous John, John regrets getting married, Kissing, M/M, Mild Angst, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive John, Prompt Fic, S3E3- His Last Vow, Sherlock's Voice, They don't have much time, They're both a bit not good, and overcome with desire for one another, so apologies to you elevator enthusiasts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-06
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-05-03 02:45:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14559153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/pseuds/FinAmour
Summary: “I don’t know,” John responds. He lifts his hand and delicately rests his thumb onto the Cupid's Bow of Sherlock's mouth. “I just know one thing: that all I can ever seem to think about is your lips. The colour and the shape of them; the corners and the curves—and not in the very least, what it would be like to kiss them.” He lightly traces Sherlock's lips with his thumb before letting his hand fall. “But if you would like for me to stop...”A desperation overcomes Sherlock at the thought of losing the sensation of John’s mouth on his. He takes John by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Kiss me, John. God, for the love of everything. Kiss me.”——————————So, um, there was this recent interview with MF where he talked about being "hand-pulled” in an elevator... andagirlsnamehad this idea about Sherlock giving John a hand job in an elevator...And THEN THIS happened. Somehow.





	Four Minutes and Thirty Seconds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [agirlsname](https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlsname/gifts).



> Just in case it isn’t heavily implied enough in the tags, there is infidelity involved in this fic. So if this is triggering for you in any way, it might not be your cup of tea! :)
> 
> Update: OKAY SO apparently the word “elevator” is super American and British people use the word “lift”... I’ve decided to keep it the way I originally wrote it since it’s based off the MF interview where he actually used the word “elevator”— BLAME HIM. ♥️

“You’ve just proposed to Janine.”  The concept continues to seep into John's skin as he and Sherlock stare forward through the sliding doors of the elevator.

“Yes,” Sherlock responds casually, pressing the button to the eighteenth floor. “It was by far the simplest way to get to Magnussen.” 

“You were _using_ her.”

“Obviously.”

“And you think that's all okay,” John sighs. “Toying with human emotions like that?" His voice is quietly on edge as the elevator begins to climb.

_First floor. Second. Third._

Sherlock tosses him a sidelong glance. “And that comes as a surprise to you.” He blinks, his brow furrowing. "Why is that, exactly?"

_“Because."_ The word falls from John’s lips with thinly-veiled disappointment. “I suppose I believed, after all you’d been through, you’d changed.”

Sherlock scoffs. “As always, John, I do what needs to be done—for whatever the current case is. The implications of sentimental attachments are meaningless to me.”

Even as he says it, he knows it's a blatant lie, and he looks at John, whose expression becomes crestfallen.

_Fourth. Fifth._ _Sixth_.

“I thought you were actually... in love with her," John says, his fists tightening at his sides. "Not a concept I was particularly fond of.” He grinds his teeth, jaw clenching, as though he’s swallowing back a secret.  

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “A resounding _no,"_ he says.“But you weren't the one being toyed with. So why would it matter to you either way?" 

“Sherlock—” John hesitates, his breath irregular, and Sherlock can see that he is choosing his words carefully. “If you truly believe you weren’t toying with me, you’re a bigger idiot than I thought.” His eyes are wild with something Sherlock cannot define.

_Seventh. Eighth. Ninth._

Sherlock may be fluent in a half-dozen languages, but the language of emotions is one he must normally rely on John to interpret. He tries to wrap his head around what John is telling him, but it is all in a tongue which he cannot understand. Regardless, he knows that John is hurting, and he knows it’s because of him.

That is something Sherlock has never been able to ignore. 

“J-John,” Sherlock stutters. “I’m not quite sure what to say. It wasn’t my intention to—”

Like a stone, John’s gaze is fixed onto the doors before him. “It’s fine, Sherlock. We don’t need to talk about it.”

_Tenth. Eleventh. Twelfth._

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock implores. “How have I toyed with you? Please, tell me what you mean.”

John grunts, smiling humourlessly. “Waste of my own breath; seeing as that knowledge wouldn’t benefit your case in any way."

Sherlock’s eyes grow sad as he scans John’s face.

"And besides,” John says. "Right now, we don't have the time."

The state of John's happiness is something that pulls at Sherlock from every direction, even if it is against his own better judgment. And if it's time that John needs, then Sherlock will find a way to give him time.

So he reaches his hand out and presses the emergency button on the elevator.

The lights flicker. The alarm sounds. The elevator stalls.

_Four minutes and thirty seconds._

John whips his head to the side, widening his eyes at Sherlock. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?” 

Sherlock turns and takes a step toward him. “Someone will soon be heading out to inspect the elevator shaft. When they arrive, they will see that there is no actual emergency, and we will be on our way again.” He hovers closer to John, looking down into his eyes. “We have approximately four and a half minutes, so I suggest you begin talking.”

John huffs incredulously. "Jesus, Sherlock," he utters as his face grows more flushed. “You are absolutely mad.”

“John, this fact is news to no one, and the clock is ticking. So please, let's deal with the matter at hand.” His eyes continue to lock with John’s as he peers down at him expectantly. “Tell. Me. What. You. Mean. _"_

John looks back up at Sherlock with a quiet desperation. “Not only are you  _mad_ ,” he says defiantly. “You’re infuriatingly unobservant for someone with such phenomenal observation skills.”

_Four minutes._

_"Tell me_ , John.” Sherlock’s breath falls onto John’s face in small, hot puffs.

John finally cowers to Sherlock’s gaze and his words, his eyes averted, his lips pressed together. “Sherlock,” he whispers defeatedly. “I don’t think it’s the time, nor the place, to—"

“As you are aware,” Sherlock interrupts, stepping closer to John until their bodies are completely aligned. "I've never been good at dealing with these things."

John's eyes dart back up to his, overcast with a shadow of sadness. “And as you are aware, I’ve never been good at talking about them.”

“No." Sherlock's face is centimetres from John's. "You’ve always been a man of action, haven’t you?”

"Yes, I suppose so," John replies, his eyes falling onto Sherlock's mouth.

The air between their lips crackles with magnetic electricity—and unable to fight it, they helplessly give in.

_Three minutes and thirty seconds._

John's lips are dry and commanding as they press into Sherlock’s soft, pliant ones. His fingers are needy as they move down the sides of Sherlock’s face; down the length of his neck; grasping at his coat collar; around his back, splaying over his shoulders.

Tongues sliding together, breaths coming out in tiny gasps, the two men claim one another in a firm, full embrace—pulling in until the space between their bodies no longer exists.

_Three minutes._

Sherlock is kissing John Watson. 

The incredible John Watson: his heroic, kind flatmate. John Watson, whose resolve remains strong as his jumpers are soft; who killed a man to save Sherlock’s life; who gets in rows with machines. And God, Sherlock has wanted to kiss him for so long, but he’d never thought it possible.

Captain. Doctor. John. Hamish. Watson.

Who had only recently gotten married.

_Two minutes and thirty seconds._

Sherlock pries his mouth from John’s with a wet sound.  _“Mary,”_  he exhales, his lips red and swollen.

John groans. “I don’t normally get called by other people’s names while being snogged—”

“John, you’re _married._ ”

“Oh,” John exhales in amusement. “So _now_ you’re suddenly concerned with the ethics of interpersonal relationships?”

“No. _I’m_ not. But YOU are a good man, John, and _your_ life will always be of concern to me.”

John looks back at Sherlock with a pulsating regret. “Am I really such a good man?” he asks, leaning away. “Does a good man get married to someone when he knows he bloody well shouldn’t?”

Sherlock frowns, his heart dropping through the floor. “And why shouldn't he?” he says. “Er, why did you—”

“I don’t know,” John responds. He lifts his hand and delicately rests his thumb onto the Cupid's Bow of Sherlock's mouth. “I just know one thing: that all I can ever seem to think about is your lips. The colour and the shape of them; the corners and the curves—and not in the very least, what it would be like to kiss them.” He lightly traces Sherlock's lips with his thumb before letting his hand fall. “But if you would like for me to stop..."

A desperation overcomes Sherlock at the thought of losing the sensation of John’s mouth on his. He takes John by the shoulders, shaking him lightly. “Kiss me, John. God, for the love of everything. _Kiss me_.”

And John kisses him again with an astonishing urgency; pouring out years and years of pining. There is groaning and clattering and pushing and pulling and tugging and caressing and  _love_ , and it is all deeply, completely overwhelming. 

_Two minutes._

John moves his fingers underneath Sherlock’s coat, unbuttoning his shirt. “Sherlock,” he chuckles, although he doesn’t hesitate. “Perhaps we shouldn’t be doing this _here_.”

Sherlock responds by ripping apart the buttons on John’s trousers, sliding his hand down the front of John’s pants. John keens forward, his eyes wide, emitting a low, startled groan. “ _Jesus_ , Sherlock,” he breathes, his eyes screwing shut.

“We’ve got two minutes, John,’ Sherlock whispers. “And that allows me plenty of time to finish what I’ve just started.”

“As amazing as that sounds,” John gasps, beads of sweat forming at his brow. “There are elevator cameras here, you know.”

“Fake cameras,” Sherlock says. “They don’t work. Magnussen knows how to cover his own back.” He pulls his hand from John’s pants, and John’s eyes fly open at the loss of the sensation.

Sherlock brings his own hand to his mouth, sliding his wet pink tongue onto his palm and caking it with a generous coat of saliva.

John watches all the while, biting onto his bottom lip. “Dear _God,”_ he says. “God, that is so—fucking—hot.”

Sherlock smirks as he grazes down John’s lower abdomen, grasping onto him with his slickened hand. John emits a guttural sound, his body jerking in response to Sherlock's touch. 

_One minute and thirty seconds._

Sherlock leans back over and traces his lips from John’s mouth, to his chin, to his cheek, until they are hovering just over the helix of John’s ear. “John,” he says with a sensually deep exhalation—and John squirms, he _squirms_ at the sound of his name.

“I’ve wanted you,” Sherlock utters, relishing the feeling of John between his fingers. "Since the moment I very first laid eyes on you." 

John’s breath hitches, his face twisting with desire.

"I've wanted you in every way imaginable," Sherlock continues, his voice tortuously low. "I have wanted—and I continue to want.”

The tension builds in John's lower body as he grasps on to Sherlock's backside. 

Sherlock wraps his lips around John's earlobe, sucking it into his mouth, and exhales a hot breath before continuing. “I want to study every centimetre of your body—to know exactly how every molecule tastes. To use my tongue to catalogue every piece of you. And I want to use that knowledge to make you writhe with relentless desire.”

_One minute._

Sherlock swirls his tongue around John's ear as his fingers feel every inch of him. John has gone completely silent, but his eyes are clenched tightly, his tongue flickering out over his lips.

“John, I want to lie on the bed, face down, spreading my legs as I beg you to take me. And I want you to take me until you reach a state of ecstasy so unimaginable that you will swear on the earth, moon, and stars that you’ve ascended onto another plane.”

John's hips snap forward more hastily, more rhythmically. Sherlock speeds up his hand movements, feeling him teetering closer to the edge. 

“But more than that—" Sherlock exhales, kissing John lightly on the jaw, “I want to give myself to you. Completely and in every way of which I am capable. I want to let you possess me, to own me, to devour me. To claim me, to mark me all over, because I belong to _you,_ John Watson. I belong to only you.”

“ _Sh_ _erlock_.” John grunts and swears under his breath. His legs are shaking, his face drenched with sweat. His fingers squeeze Sherlock’s backside as his hips buck forward with force, and he emits a long, feral groan as he pulses into Sherlock’s hand.

_Thirty seconds._

John's head collapses onto Sherlock's chest, and Sherlock softly kisses the top of it.

"Thirty seconds to spare," Sherlock says, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket, and he can feel John's lips against him as they form into a smile.

There is a rumbling sound as the elevator starts to move again.

_Thirteenth. Fourteenth. Fifteenth._

John lifts his head up in a daze, and Sherlock's mouth meets his in a lazy, open-mouthed kiss.

_Sixteenth. Seventeenth. Eighteenth._

The elevator dings.

They pull apart, and John clears his throat. “I know it’s complicated, Sherlock,” he says, lowering his eyes. “But I’d like nothing more than for things to go back to the way they used to be. Just the two of us.”

Sherlock blinks at him. “The two of us.”

John nods.

Sherlock smiles as the elevator doors slide open. “I would like that, too, John. But right now," he says, "I need to talk to Magnussen.”

As they step off the elevator, a familiar smell wafts toward them. Sherlock shuts his eyes, inhaling deeply.

“John,” he says softly, pressing his palm lightly onto John’s chest. “Stay here for a moment. I’ll be right back.”

“Alright,” John responds, concern in his voice. “Just...let me know if you need me.”

_I always need you, John._

The words fill Sherlock’s head as he follows the scent of _Clair de la Lune_ into the adjoining room.


End file.
